The Wheeling Transoms Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Through the playgrounds of a sibilant school yard
We say things about who we are:
The cars come together as if for communion, their bodies
Growing older but with no more wisdom,
And the tired salesmen collapse into the entry ways of
Graveyards
Even while the day seams to be hooded with a cap of
Gold,
And all the big pictures are playing in the cool and the darkness:
Alma with her children in a silver dream,
Like the phosphorous veins that spindle through a disrupted
Sea:
I would reach down to keep her body on the surface like a brown
Leaf:
I would metamorphosis into a paper boat just to come together
And kiss her ochre ridges,
And to smell her through the sounds of airplanes,
All the way from the soft forests of Mexico- all the long and
Embarrassing ways she came by bus, pregnant with
Michael,
Her eyes looking through the wheeling transoms, seeing so
Far away.